Gina arrived at the hotel where she was to interview Greg. It was the usual set up: posh hotel, lavish lobby, and that feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was so out of her depth. If she had never met Greg before, she would probably be running back toward her car.

Gina stepped into the lobby and sat herself on an oversized gold and white couch. She slid her bag onto the couch next to her and sat, nervously twiddling her thumbs. Ten minutes later a perky brunette in a pale blue power suit appeared, as if from nowhere.

“Hi, are you the journalist from The Sydney Morning Herald?” she asked in that condescending way publicists do.

“Well, I’m not here for a free mammogram,” Gina replied with a wry smile as she stood.

The publicist looked at Gina confused for a moment, obviously having trouble with the word mammogram.

“I’m Emma,” she mumbled and held out her hand.

“Gina,” she replied, shaking Emma’s clammy hand.

“Mr Proops should be down in a minute,” Emma smiled. “I’ll just go check on him, do you have a list of questions?” she added.

“Nothing on paper. Just how’s the wart? And the kids say hi,” Gina mused.

Emma gave her another confused look, looked down at her clipboard and then disappeared.

Gina giggled to herself and sat back down.

A few minutes later, Emma stepped out of the elevator with Greg. She was prattling on to him and he looked totally disinterested. Gina fought hard not to smile as they approached. She didn’t bother to get up, just crossed her legs and looked important. It took Greg a few seconds to register, mostly because Emma wouldn’t shut up. He broke into an unashamedly shocked and excited smile.

“Mr Proops, this is…” Emma began.

“GINA,” Greg gasped.

“Hey Speccy,” Gina perked.

Greg held out his hand, Gina took it and he pulled her to her feet.

“Look at you, you look gorgeous,” he gushed.

“I know, it’s a crime,” Gina giggled, trying to hide her blushing.

“Mr Proops I should tell you that…” Emma cut in.

“Do I pay you for something?” Greg snapped.

“I’m your publicist,” Emma squeaked.

“No, you’re the verbally incontinent girl they assigned to me, go away,” Greg ordered.

Emma tried to say several things. Nothing came out and she scurried away.

“Wasn’t that just a tad mean?” Gina scolded.

“Trust me, you haven’t been stuck with her for a fortnight,” Greg sighed.

It was Gina’s turn to smile unashamedly. She realised she was staring like an idiot and forced herself to stop.

“So do you want to do the interview here or somewhere else?” she babbled.

“You’re seriously going to interview me?” Greg mused.

“I have to, babe, it’s what I get paid for,” Gina chided.

“Ok, but I’m demanding we go somewhere there’s food,” Greg demanded.

“There’s a Macca’s round the corner,” Gina perked.

“Yes, good old American food, lots of grease and dead animals,” Greg chirped.

Gina looked at him and shook her head. “I was going to say that I’ve missed you…”

Greg chuckled and led the way out of the hotel.

Fenny was going mental. She’d gotten burnt at the beach and decided to go back to Gina’s apartment. She soon got bored of that, and after a quick search of the newspaper, decided to check out the art gallery. She had been meaning to go, but just hadn’t gotten around to it, so now was as good a time as any.

Fenny walked slowly around, admiring the various paintings. She wasn’t at all impressed with some that could hardly be described as art, and eventually found herself transfixed by a sculpture. She couldn’t decide if it was phallic, a famous landmark, or a gazelle.

“It looks like a giant penis, doesn’t it?” a voice chirped.

“Is it?” Fenny asked without looking back.

“Apparently it’s a woman in the birthing position,” the voice mused, and Fenny stood back and turned to see where the voice had come from. A thin man with ruffled brown hair, an appalling shirt, and stunning hazel eyes.

“Which part of it is birthing?” she gasped.

“Hey, I think the guy was just using the whole birthing thing as an excuse to sculpt his own dick,” the man chuckled, “and hey, who hasn’t?”

Fenny surprised herself by giggling. “So you speak from experience, then?”

“Oh yeah, I’m always pulling out the play-doh and molding it into replicas of my penis,” the man jeered.

“You know, that doesn’t surprise me,” she mocked. “One of the small tubs, I’d guess,” she added, gesturing with her fingers.

The man laughed. “That was pretty clever for a Yank.”

“Well, you’re pretty cultured for an Aussie,” she mused.

“Hey, at least we don’t believe Elvis is alive,” the man chided.

Fenny gave the man a wry smile. He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ceiling.

“So are you an artist yourself?” Fenny eventually asked.

“Among other things,” the man replied. “You?”

“I dabble,” Fenny cooed.

“Go to art college then realise you have no future?” the man queried.

“Yeah, you?” she countered.

“Yeah,” the man nodded.

They paused for moment.

“Paul,” said the man extending his hand.

“Fenny,” she replied and shook Paul’s hand.

“Fenny, that’s an interesting name,” he perked.

“And Paul isn’t,” she chided.

“Hey, I’m named after a disciple,” Paul scorned.

“And?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He studied her for a moment. “So, Yankee Fenny…do you wanna get a cuppa at the gallery café?” he asked.

“A cup of what?” Fenny asked.

“Cuppa, darlin’, it’s cuppa. Whatever you want, coffee, tea, skinny latte,” he jeered.

“Tea, I don’t drink coffee, ick,” she announced.

“Hey, me neither. We can share a pot,” he mused and led the way toward the gallery café.

“So do you always pick up strange women in art galleries?” Fenny asked, following him.

“No, only ones that I can interrogate…like, why did you guys invent cheese in a can, huh? What’s with that?” Paul asked.

“It’s a good lubricant,” Fenny spat, that being the first answer that popped into her head.

Paul looked at her curiously. “I don’t want to know how you know that.”

The stared at each other for a moment and then cracked up.